


Fire Eyes

by valantha



Category: Strange Empire (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical hint of Supernatural Abilities, F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, canon-typical hints of rape, no Jeremiah Loving, no on-screen rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9021142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: He was a half-blood Blackfoot who worked for the U.S. Government, she was an accused horse thief, falsely accused or no. Yet there was something, something about her eyes that called to him and burned him to his core.





	1. First Meetings

Marshal Caleb Mecredi paused on the ridge, looking out over the Montana prairie. The early autumn wind ruffled the fringe on his buckskin jacket. His horse shifted her weight restively.

He was on the range on rumors of a couple of horse thieves in the area, but the real reason was an itch betwixt his shoulder blades saying he needed to be hereabouts.

The mare stomped a hoof and he gave in, leaning forward and tapping her girth. He let the horse pick her own way down the ridge. She might not be as surefooted as his usual mount, laid up with a swollen ankle, but ain’t nobody who liked it when they was micromanaged.

A couple miles on Caleb paused to water the mare, his itch growing worse and worse. Something was gonna happen soon. When she’d had enough to drink Caleb led the mare from the stream, using all of his senses to try to figure out where he needed to go.

He caught just a whiff of campfire smoke. He mounted and rode upwind. Before too long the mare nickered, her keener senses having detected a four-hooved friend before Caleb’s.

Caleb gave her her head through the chokecherry thicket, and soon enough he saw two strangers leading a string of horses.

“Hey-yo!” Caleb greeted the men.

The strangers halted their string and howdy’ed back.

Caleb cautiously approached. As he grew near he noticed an odd black bundle heaped over the withers of one of the horses in the string.

“The name’s Jesse Jacobs, horsetrader well known above the 49th parallel, and below it,” the older man said, and then nodded at the younger man, “This here’s my nephew Chase.”

Caleb nodded and introduced himself, eyes focused on the horsetraders’ gun belts, hand on his own Colt 0.45, “I’m Caleb Mecredi, U.S. Marshal.”

They didn’t spook, didn’t reach for their gun, merely nodded in return.

“U.S. Marshal eh?” Jesse said, “I caught this horse-thieving squaw north of the border and was bringing her down for justice.”

Caleb’s itch eased instantaneously, as much of a relief as a good piss. His Blackfoot grandmère used a different analogy to describe the sensation, but it was just as crude.

Caleb took note of the horsetraders’ trail -- only vaguely southerly but mostly easterly -- and the horse’s brands -- each different and distinct, before turning his attention to the black bundle he’d previously noted. It was a woman -- at least part Indian, likely Cree, bound hand and foot, gagged, face bruised and battered, black eyes blazing, draped in a black duster.

Caleb nodded, “If you’ll come back to the station house -- not more than a half day's ride from here and give your statements you can wash your hands of her, and spend the night under a roof besides.” Caleb gestured to the northeast, in the direction of the stationhouse.

Jesse hemmed and hawed, making excuses about not wanting to backtrack and needing to make it to Billings by week’s end for his nephew’s sister’s lying-in. Caleb could smell his lies from a mile away but played out the little farce, pushing and retreating until he got what he wanted, nay needed: custody of the woman -- and their worthless promises to return and give statements.

The nephew, Chase, cut the strip of rawhide connecting the woman’s hands and ankles underneath the horse’s barrel.

She slid to the ground with remarkable grace for one still bound at the wrists and ankles, for one who’d been mistreated for who knows how long.

Her eyes followed the horsetraders until they were naught but a dust trail. Caleb used the moment of her inattention to grab his waterskin and a clean cloth from his saddlebags.

As soon as the horsetraders disappeared from view, the woman turned her fierce, eagle-like gaze to him.

Moving slowly, Caleb approached and squatted before her. She watched unblinking.

He pulled his Bowie knife from his belt. She froze, every muscle growing rigid.

“Settle, settle,” He tried in Michif. “Calm yourself. I am only going to cut you free.”

Approaching at a glacial pace, with his left hand he reached for her bound hands, wrists torn and bleeding sluggishly, with his right he held the knife, using the top edge to slit the blood-soaked rawhide fetter.

The woman did not move, though her eyes bore into his soul. Caleb withdrew knife and hands.

The woman waited a moment then tore the gag from her mouth. She spat to the side then turned her gaze back to him.

“Now what blood-traitor?” She snarled in English, the language he’d used with the horsetraders. “You expect I should lie down with you out of gratitude?”

Caleb shook his head.

“I am no horsethief. I bought my horses fairly. Those men were the thieves but did you even think to question them? Of course not, for _they_ were White. Blood-traitor,” She cursed.

To himself, Caleb admitted she had a point. He could smell the stench of their lies, but he hadn't seriously considered that they were the thieves. He never thought to take them into custody. Outwardly (he hoped) none of this showed.

“Water?” He asked instead.

She stared at him, then nodded once, sharply.

He tossed her the waterskin.

She gulped down half, then paused, mouth still at the horn nozzle. She raised an eyebrow, soundlessly asking if it was okay that she drain the bag.

Caleb nodded, “There’s a stream not a mile back.”

She emptied all but a few swallows, and proceeded to use the remainder to wash her torn wrists. Caleb tossed her the clean cloth.

She thanked him through gritted teeth and tended her hurts.

He used her distraction to examine her more closely.

Her hair was shiny and black, not quite waist long, and full of tangles and bits of duff. Obviously she hadn’t been able to brush it for a long while. Her high cheekbones and a smattering of freckles on her nose spoke of her métis heritage. The bruises on cheek, neck, and chest spoke of her fighting spirit and her captors’ displeasure.

But what truly drew his notice were her eyes. They were so full of fury and tenacity there was no room for nought else like fear or caution.

He continued his investigation. Underneath her black duster, which was filthy, more than half of the buttons had been ripped from her leather vest, revealing her bosom and no few bruises. Caleb forced his eyes to continue.

Besides the lack of gun belt ‘round her waist and rawhide hobble around her sock-clad feet there wasn’t much else of note.

She finished tending her wrists and tossed him the waterskin. She tugged at the rawhide fetter on her feet until it loosened and fell.

When he made as to get up and reclaim his mare -- she was nosing the nearest chokecherry bush -- the woman followed.

He turned to her and raised an eyebrow in question.

“I’ve got nothing and no one. Staying out here would mean naught but certain death,” she said.

Caleb knew that to be true, but was surprised she admitted it.

“I’ve got a lame gelding back at the stationhouse,” which was true, “who needs more doctorin’ than I can give,” which was false.

“I’ll give you food and shelter until he’s better, if you tend to him. Ranchers and stagecoaches come by regular like, mayhap you’ll find a more permanent place as a ranch-hand or kitchen-hand.”

The woman grimaced slightly.

“If you’ve a deft hand with a snare or a bow, I’ll pay you for ready meat and you can sell the furs.”

Her eyes scorched him as she studied him. After an eternity she nodded and held out her hand.

“You can call me Kat,” she said.

They shook hands. Her hands were small and calloused, especially her trigger finger, from honest work and using gun and possibly even bow to feed herself.

“Pleasure to meet you Kat. I’m Marshal Caleb Mecredi.”

Standing in stocking feet she wasn’t even shoulder high, but god she was chock full of fire.

To distract himself from the flood of feelings touching her hand woke in him, he warned her, “If you steal from me, I will hunt you down. Run to Canada, run south, east, or west doesn’t matter. I will find you.”

A flicker of newfound respect cooled the fire of her eyes and she nodded in understanding.


	2. Through Kat’s Eyes

Kat eyed the half-blood Marshal who, plain as the dirt beneath her sock-clad feet, wanted to have it both ways –- Marshal’s star on his fringed and beaded jacket. He couldn’t be trusted, but then again he wasn’t like to do her harm, and as she’d already admitted, she’d more than likely die out here: no boots, no gun, not even her hat to keep the sun off her too-pale skin.

“You can call me Kat,” She said at last.

They shook hands. His hands were over large and firm, but not grasping or crushing.

“Pleasure to meet you Kat. I’m Marshal Caleb Mecredi.”

She knew this already, but it was nice that he was introducing himself to her, treating her like an equal.

His eyes grew hard and he warned her, “If you steal from me, I will hunt you down. Run to Canada, run south, east, or west, it don’t matter. I will find you.”

Kat nodded in understanding. This Marshal meant what he said. Once she had enough to survive, once word of the surveyor reached this far southwest, she’d only take what she’d earned.

The Marshal led his horse over to her, a dun mare with a blaze and a stocking.

Kat fixed him with a blank stare; she was no pampered eastern woman.

“You’ve no boots ma’am.”

Kat clenched her teeth. He was right, loath as she was to admit it.

She inclined her head refusing to give him the satisfaction of saying it aloud. She also refused to let him help her into the saddle.

He smirked a little, like she was acting the fool. She sniffed and goaded the mare into a fast walk, following the Marshal’s clear trail through the thicket.

She could hear a mirthless laugh behind her, but she paid it no never mind. She had little enough left -- no family, no home, no horse, no gun, not much of herself even -- that she wasn’t going to go changing ‘cause some halfblooded Marshal thought her foolish.

After a bit she slowed the mare to an easy walk, not wanting the Marshal to think that she was stealing from him.

The Marshal caught up with them at the stream.

Kat had long since stuffed her socks in the waist of her pants for relative safekeeping and was cooling her feet in the snowmelt fed stream while she watered the mare.

The Marshal nodded to her and checked his waterskin. She had filled it. He drained it dry and re-filled it.

Kat kept a bit of her attention on him but felt no need for conversation. She’d had enough nattering from those horsethieves to last her a good long while.

After everyone’s thirst was slaked, the Marshal headed toward the stationhouse. Kat followed behind, letting the mare follow at a steady pace.

An hour or so past the stream the Marshal asked to her stop. He dug through his saddlepack and handed her a piece of hardtack and a carrot while taking the same for himself.

Kat looked at the carrot. It wasn’t the kind of foodstuff she expected a U.S. Marshal to have.

“I grow them on the roof of the stationhouse, away from the damn rabbits,” the Marshal said, understanding her incredulous look.

Kat nodded and took a large bite, savoring the sweet and earthy crunch. It had been a long time since she’d had something other than fresh meat and hard bread.

Once the carrot vanished, she broke of a hunk of the hardtack and held it in her mouth to soften ‘til she could chew it without breaking a tooth.

They continued.

With Kat’s stomach pleasantly full for the first time since she saw the smoke of the horsethieves’ fire, she dared to ask a question that had been nagging at her.

“How is it a half-blood Blackfoot comes to be a Marshal in the service of the United States government?”

Caleb stopped walking and turned to face her, “Indians south of here killed some miners a while back. Also a rancher in Helena. According to sources in Montana alone, there’s been a tally of 56 purebred White men killed by Indians.”

Kat sniffed, _of course, blood-traitor_. “Is there a tally for Indians killed by White men? Where I’m from there sure as hell is.”

“Kat, I am here to make a case to the White Man to keep the army out of Montana,” he said. “I am here to prevent the United States Cavalry from killing every single Indian from here to kingdom come.”

And there was that dismissive look, that ‘you’re so foolish, you’re ignoring the nose on your face look.’

Oh how she wanted to kick the mare into a run and leave the Marshal in the dust, but that would truly be only hurting her own self, so she stood firm and returned fire. “You’re the fool if you think that you can make a lick of difference with your Marshal’s star.”

“You talk like the law’s set against you.”

“White Man’s law,” she agreed. “And I’ll say it’s ill-used and for gain, and never once served an Indian, a Chinaman, or a woman.”

“I aim on changing that.”

Kat sniffed. He was so naïve he didn’t know he was naïve.

The rest of the ride back to stationhouse passed in silence and Kat was glad of it.

* * *

The sun was westering when they reached their destination. There was a large Black man and a White rancher waiting at the stationhouse.

Caleb turned to Kat and said, “Tend to the horse while I see to this?”

Kat nodded. He’d already fed her, she owed him that much at least.

She led the mare to the stable and dismounted, taking brief note of dark, almost black bay gelding already there. At least that much of what the Marshal said was true.

She watered and brushed the mare and fed both horses. She inspected the gelding’s swollen ankle but didn’t probe too deeply as she heard the strangers leave on their own horses. She gave the mare a pat goodbye before walking ‘round the stable yard muck to the stationhouse.

Caleb was standing on the porch, smoking a cigarette, “How’s the mare and _Síkimiwa_?”

Kat paused surprised he named the gelding the Blackfoot word for black; Caleb truly was trying to embrace both sides of his heritage, yet another example of his naivety.

“Fed, watered, and groomed,” she answered.

“Good. I’ve some of yesterday’s meat and dead men’s clothing for you too.”

Kat suppressed a shudder at the thought of wearing dead men’s boots, but she nodded. There wasn’t much else she could do.

They finished the hare Caleb had caught yesterday and some hardtack.

After dinner he showed her the closet full of dead men’s clothes -– Kat pushed aside the cries of murder victims and the jeers of hanged men: thieves, murderers, and rapists. She took a nice hat from a man shot in the back, too surprised at his end to protest much. Her boots, they were from a horsethief and drunkard. And she found the shirt from a young man, not more than a boy, who’d been hung for stealing three chickens and a woman’s necklace.

There were no gun belts to be had, which was fine. The Marshal would like as not trust her with a pistol but had mentioned a bow. If the draw wasn’t too heavy –- which wasn’t needed for most game -– she’d be well outfitted.

Kat said a prayer for the restless dead whose clothes she took before searching out the Marshal again.

Caleb led her round back, to an outbuilding that upon further inspection turned out to be a jail cell.

She stopped short.

Caleb rubbed his cheeks in a sheepish manner, “It has the only bed besides my own and I’ll give you the only key besides the one at Headquarters in Billings.”

Kat was going to say that sleeping in the stables would be better than she’d had in a long while -- since she left Batoche -- but she didn’t want to seem weak in front of the Marshal. So she nodded and held her hand out for the key.

He handed it over, seeming relieved that she hadn’t fought him on this.

She opened the cage-like door to the jail –- a split pine structure more cracked than a chicken coop, over a wrought iron cage. The floor held tin bucket for a chamber pot and a thick straw-stuffed mattress with a buffalo skin for warmth.

Resolutely she pulled the door behind her and nodded to the Marshal.

He nodded back and then fled the scene.


	3. The first day

The first night Kat spent in that jail cell was not the worst night she’d ever had, but it was pretty damn awful.

The straw mattress was comfortable and the buffalo skin kept the early autumn chill at bay. Each stomp of a hoof, each snap of a twig, and each heavy _woof_ the horses made sent adrenaline coursing through her veins until she identified the cause and determined that it was not the Marshal coming to rape her. Determined that she hadn’t trusted the wrong man, _again_. All told she probably slept an hour, but refused to show it.

As the sky outside the jail cell brightened from predawn to true dawn she threw off the buffalo skin and headed to the stables.

She was mostly through heaving enough fresh hay down from the loft to feed both horses when the Marshal opened the stable doors.

The black bay nickered in greeting and Caleb rubbed his forehead and jaw.

“Morning,” he called up to the hayloft.

“Morning,” Kat replied.

Once she finished pitching the rest of the fresh hay, she stowed the pitchfork and clambered down.

“You’re up early,” Caleb said.

Kat shrugged and continued feeding the two horses.

Caleb stood watching for several moments before clearing his throat and saying, “It looks like you’ve got everything well in hand here. There will be breakfast waiting for you when you’re done.”

Kat nodded her understanding and continued the work for which she was being fed and housed.

She drew out the morning chores as best as she was able but once both horses were well fed and watered, she washed her hands and headed in.

Breakfast was fried eggs -– though she hadn’t seen any chickens -– with more hardtack and some tea.

The Marshal looked up from his breakfast with a smile, “The horses doing well?”

Kat nodded and sat down at the seat in front of the plate. She took a cautious sip of the tea, it was chicory and soothingly warm. She mimicked what she saw the Marshal doing, by sticking the hardtack into the mug of tea to soften while focusing on the eggs.

Her aunties always said that hunger was the best spice, and they were surely right. She hadn’t had something so tasty in a long time.

“I got the eggs from Widow Jenkins in trade for a jackrabbit a few days past. She runs a kitchen on one of the ranches nearby,” Caleb said, clearly needing to make conversation.

Kat made a neutral _hmmm_.

“She might need another kitchen-hand and she’s a fair woman.”

Kat _hmmm_ ed again. Caleb was trying to be helpful but there wasn’t a chance in hell that she’d stick around to be a kitchen-hand.

Once she’d inhaled the eggs she turned to the chicory-soaked hardtack. It was pretty good. The earthy, rich yet bitter taste of the chicory flavored the hardtack while also making it easy to chew.

“I also have White Man’s tea and peppermint tea if you prefer, but I like chicory and you were… quite thorough out there.”

Kat finished chewing her chuck of hardtack, “Chicory is good.”

“Good,” Caleb said, seeming finally content to let her eat in peace.

Once both plates were clear, Kat asked to see Caleb’s medicinal supplies. He raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

“For the horse,” she said simply.

He nodded and showed her his modest stock of supplies. Kat found some herbs that would reduce swelling when applied as a warm poultice and a good supply of willow bark for pain but not much else. She grabbed two bundles of herbs and a dried roll of the willow bark.

“Thank you,” she said on her way the stable. She needed to inspect the ankle to make sure the treatment was suitable, and the horse could actually get better. It would be just her luck that the ankle was broken and the best thing to do for the horse would be to put it out of its misery. Then where would she be?

With careful probing Kat found that in fact the ankle was swollen and hot, but there were no detectable broken bones. It was most likely that the gelding had sprained a tendon or ligament. This she could treat.

Kat said goodbye to the black bay gelding free of markings but with clear, intelligent eyes. He nickered in response. She smiled.

She returned to the stationhouse and stoked the dying remains of the breakfast fire back to life. She put the kettle on the chimney hook to boil water for the willow bark tea. It would need to seep and cool before the gelding would drink it.

While the water heated, she grabbed two pieces of hardtack, to serve as the base for the poultice, and placed them in a large wooden bowl. She took a moment to admire the bowl. It was carved from a single, large chunk of tree, complete with gnarly knots, and sanded smooth. It was a fine piece of workmanship and she wondered where Caleb got it as she crumbled the yarrow leaves over the hardtack.

She poured some hot but not yet boiling water into the bowl to soften the hardtack and activate the yarrow. Then she borrowed Caleb’s kitchen knife and shredded the Hot-root. She mixed the shredded root in with the softening hardtack until she had well-mixed dough-like poultice. She set it on the hearth to keep warm. She took the knife outside to the water pump and carefully washed it off. It wasn’t toxic to eat, just very, very hot.

When she returned, the kettle was whistling and she quickly pulled it from the flames and poured the water over the waiting willow bark.

After tending the fire, Kat grabbed the poultice bowl and returned to the stable. Placing the bowl on a conveniently placed worktable, she dug around searching for old feed cloth or something similar to serve as a bandage to hold the poultice to the injury.

After maybe five minutes she found a bag of clean yet old or stained cloths that seemed perfect for her purpose. She also found the stable to be blessedly free of restless spirits.

Grabbing a handful of bandages, she mounded the still-steaming hardtack-poultice into one cloth and applied it to the ankle.

The gelding, _Síkimiwa_ , looked askance at her. She wrapped the bandage firmly, but not too tightly, and then wrapped in his other leg for balance. The poultice could only be left on for six hours or so, and by then the willow bark tea should be ready. It wouldn't be easy to get the gelding to swallow the bitter tea, but it was her job.

On her way out she grabbed the wooden bowl and a little something extra. While searching for the bandages she’d found a third hoof knife buried under some saddle patching materials. Caleb wouldn’t miss it, and as long as she didn’t leave the stationhouse with the knife it wasn’t stealing, _right_?

The short, curved blade might make it a bit challenging to use, but it made her feel better. She was certain she could slice a man’s throat with it if she had to.


	4. Caleb’s turn

Caleb looked up at his ceiling and thanked whoever or whatever was looking out for him up there for sending Kat to him, or visa versa. She was dedicated to her work with _Síki_ , poulticing his ankle twice a day and even moving into the stable to make sure he was well looked after.

With such diligent care it was no surprise that the gelding healed faster than Caleb would have thought possible, yesterday Kat took him for a long walk and the ankle was fine. She said in a couple of days he’d likely be ready for a rider. Which presented a huge problem for Caleb.

He didn’t want Kat to leave, but she wouldn’t stay without a purpose. Caleb was more than half thinking about doing himself an injury just so she’d stay.

The first few days had been tense. Kat’s fire eyes had been fixed on him, ready to scorch him if he made any wrong moves. Caleb had handled broken horses before and kept his movements steady and his voice level. But somehow he also knew she’d despise him if he treated her too gently. What had happened to her was awful but she didn’t want any pity.

After several days she no longer held herself tauter than a bowstring -- and she no longer looked like she’d bolt without boots on -– so he suggested that she might be able to do something about all the rabbits about.

She had nodded tightly, but was shocked when he handed her his own belt knife and some cordage. At the time he said something along the lines of ‘You’ll need this to catch anything, and to dress what you catch’ but he hoped his trust would settle her, and maybe she’d stop carrying around the teeny hoof knife she’d found.

Whether it was the act, time, or the distraction of tending the snares and her catch, she did seem to calm down after that.

Which was a mixed blessing. Caleb could easily keep himself at a distance from a broken filly, but God, that half-smile she gifted him with after he paid her a nickel for the meat from her first two rabbits; it did such wicked things to him. Her bruises were mostly faded, and the fire in her eyes was a warming hearth fire, not a scouring wild fire.

That night he touched himself, thinking about stroking her high, fine cheekbones; kissing the freckles that danced upon her nose; and the joy of having her truly smile at _him_. He wasn’t proud.

Despite the distraction she brought –- and the shame too -– it was nice having her around. It was nice hearing her talk to the horses while she mucked out the stable. It was nice seeing her skins in various stages of tanning lying about, like the stationhouse was a real home, instead of someplace he sometimes slept. It was nice, talking by the fire at night while she turned the skins from the first two rabbits into moccasins -– she claimed her boots were haunted, and who was he to argue -- and he mended his tent. In truth, he mostly watched the firelight play on her features but he tired to be discreet.

It was on one of these nights, after he’d finished mending the tear in the tent, but before he waxed it to make it waterproof again, he got his first hint that maybe, just maybe, his… _admiration_ for Kat wasn’t completely one-sided.

* * *

He set his tent aside and rolled up his sewing kit, the precious bone needles inside, and grabbed his tobacco pouch from the mantle.

He noticed Kat eyeing the intricate beadwork with interest.

“A gift from my mother,” he said.

Kat nodded and turned her gaze back to her moccasin. She had bought a needle from him for the work for the price of one fox skin, still summer red. Caleb would have lent her the needle, but to say Kat was stubborn would be akin to saying the sun was hot, or the sky large.

He rolled himself a cigarette. He lit it and after the first couple of drags he offered it to her. She shook her head, but kindly like.

He said, “You a Cree and me a Blackfoot, we should be enemies.”

“Not in these times,” she said with a small smile.

That smile all but slayed him, and it took Caleb a few moments to catch his breath and reply, “No. That’s for certain.”

Throughout the rest of the night he caught her casting furtive glances at him, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t just hopeful imaginings on his part.

* * *

He treasured the memory of that night, more than he really ought to. He also treasured the fox skin Kat had tanned for him, sleeping with the butter-soft brain-cured hide next to his skin at night.

But by the tentative light peeking through the curtain, it wasn’t night any longer and Caleb wasn’t about to waste part of his last few days with Kat on reminiscing instead of creating more memories. He dressed quickly and went to fill up the kettle for tea.

Outside, halfway between the stable and the outhouse he saw Kat bent over, retching. He ran to her, dropping the kettle. He squatted beside her, pulling her long (silky) hair back as she continued to vomit.

He murmured soothing words, mostly to calm himself, and when Kat stopped retching for a moment, he helped her to sit up and asked, “What’s wrong? Do you need a doctor? I’ve heard there’s one not too far north of here. I can get him and bring him back before the day is through.”

Kat shook her head.

“Why not?”

“There’s nothing a doctor can do.”

Her eyes are so full of hopelessness he wants to find and kill whatever or whomever put that in them, slowly.

“I’m with child,” she said simply.

Caleb sat down heavily, narrowly missing the puddle of yuck.

She was pregnant, pregnant with those brutes’ child.

“Mary me Kat,” he asked.

She looked at him like he was insane.

“Marry me Kat and I’ll take the child as my own. We could be a family,” he pleaded.

Kat looked down.

Caleb grabbed her hand. She continued to stare at the dirt.

“Your feelings are not as I would wish them, but I hope they may be, in time, equal to mine?”

Kat looked up.

“Say yes," he pleaded.

Caleb felt, more than saw, her hesitation melt.

“Yes.”

The anxiety and fear Caleb hadn’t even realized he’d been bottling up for the past few weeks disappeared, and he leaned down to kiss her softly.

She watched him approach, but did not flee, the despair in her eyes being replaced by curiosity.

Her lips held the acrid tang of vomit, but it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

“Come, I’ll make you some peppermint tea to settle your stomach.” She extended her hand to him and he helped her up.

Caleb smiled as he grabbed the now dented kettle. Who knew one of his shoulder itches would lead to this?


	5. Happily Ever After is for fairy tales

Kat climbed the stationhouse stairs, resolved to do her wifely duties.

Caleb woke to the creaky third-from-the-top step. He turned to the bedroom door. Kat was standing there, a fiercely determined look on her face. Caleb felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her like this.

Kat stepped into Caleb’s bedroom, taking note of the red tattoo on his upper arm and his smooth, nearly hairless chest. She began unbuttoning her shirt. A look of disgust crossed Caleb’s face, still visible in the moonlight. She stopped. If he hadn’t wanted used goods, then he shouldn’t have offered marriage.

Caleb half sat up, the resolution on Kat’s face turned to cold rage.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, trying to get a handle on this dream-turned-nightmare.

Kat’s face was a frightening mix of persistence and indignation, “If you do not want me, then why did you ask for me?”

Caleb sat up fully in bed, his thoughts tumbling over one another.

“I do want you. But not like this. Not now. You forcing yourself into my bed is no better than what those others did…”

Kat stood stock still, which gave Caleb some time to think of what best to say.

“I do want you. God, oh how I do. But I can wait. I want to wait until you want me.”

Kat stepped back and leaned against the doorjamb, her mind also a muddle. Caleb bent over and grabbed his shirt. He began dressing.

“Maybe I do want you?” Kat forced out. He was kind, and fair, and naïve, and oh so much better than those others. He cared, and maybe his caring touch would erase the touch of the others.

“No maybes. You’ve got to be sure Kat.”

Kat rubbed her stomach. It was as flat as it had ever been, but there was a child in there. A child that needed looking after and care. A child that could be the beginning of a family to replace the one she’d lost.

Caleb watched Kat lean against the doorjamb, rubbing her stomach, rubbing her womb and the child within. He watched her alone in her despair and oh how he hated himself and especially those horsethieves that had put her in this state.

Once dressed, he approached cautiously, not wanting to startle her.

When she looked up at him, he grabbed her hands, “Kat, Kat tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Kat looked up at Caleb’s approach. She could not name the expression on his face but it called to her. His earnest pleading weakened her resolve to stand strong even further. After searching his face for some moments, his eyes seeking hers, not as an invasion, but as an entreaty, she collapsed against his broad chest. His warm arms enveloped hers and for the first time in ages Kat felt safe.

Caleb sought out Kat’s eyes with his own. He wanted, no needed, to understand what was going on with her so he could do something to help.

He was shocked when she laid her cheek against his chest but took only seconds to decide to hug her to him. She did not protest, only breathed deep, shuddering breaths. He stroked her hair, smelled the clean horse-soap scent of her, and tried to embed this moment in his memory forever.

When Kat began fidgeting, he loosened his hold on her and took a step back. The last thing Caleb wanted was to confine her.

Kat stared at the floor. He ducked his head down to make eye contact, to check on her. Her face bore the same tenacious look as before. He quailed.

“I do want this, you,” Kat said. “I want your…”

Kat paused and grabbed his hand in both of hers. “… kind hands to erase the memories of theirs.”

Caleb would have had to be carved of granite to be unaffected by her small, cold hands stroking his hand, and her admission.

Caleb’s hand was warm and rough. She knew he didn’t shirk from hard work, and yet he could be so gentle, too.

“Are you sure?” He asked, again.

“Sure as I can be,” Kat replied. She did want him, now. Maybe she’d regret it later, maybe even she’d want to stop, but for now she wanted, no needed, to try.

His free hand cupped her chin, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He studied her eyes. There was something of determination there, but also hunger. He tilted her face up and kissed her, a deeper kiss than their first.

She kissed back, pushing into the kiss, battling his tongue for dominance. This is what he thought making love to her would be like. This was his fiery Kat, not that despairing, beaten creature from before.

He pulled his hand from hers and unbuttoned the rest of her shirt buttons, all the while continuing to kiss her. Her fingers fumbled with his own buttons.

Since she was half unbuttoned already, he won the race. He slid his hands under her open shirt, around her lower back, aiming to pull her closer to kiss her even more deeply. But she jumped, as if shocked.

He stopped, removing his hands from her skin.

“We can…”

“No,” she interrupted. She didn’t want to stop. His tender hands just surprised her, is all. She continued to unbutton his shirt.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded firmly, unbuttoning his last button at the same time. She ran her fingers up his chest, pausing to investigate the circular scars before moving to his firm shoulders and pulling off his shirt.

He watched her -– eyes flickering between her face and her partly bare belly and breast. Then he helped her, shaking his shirt off of his arms.

Tentatively he wrapped one hand around her lower back and when she did not startle or protest, he led her away from the door to his bed. When the backs of his legs hit the bedframe, he sat tugging her on top of him. His hoped the position would be better for her, bring her less bad memories.

He walked backwards and sat on his bed. He pulled her on top of him and it took her some attempts to find an easy position, astraddle his legs. He strained up and drew her lips down to his. As they kissed, fervently, Kat began to see the appeal of their position, his needy maleness underneath her.

Each kiss, each caress, each stroke of Caleb’s was an act of worship not an act of ownership. After he came to his completion, crying out her name, he wrapped his arms around her, kissed her bare shoulder in sloppy tenderness, and promptly fell asleep.

He was certainly quite different from the men before, and Kat did not regret her decision in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :) Even if you read this fic years from now, if you liked it, make my day and let me know.


End file.
